located in a backyard behind the ravari room in beautiful downtown washington beach, the hillbilly drive-in is a double-feature theater consisting of about 30-or-so dilapidated lawn chairs that runs every sunday at dark throughout the summer and fall months. if you can't find it or someone who knows where it is you should probably give up on life.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Bring Me The Head Of The Fortune Teller

this past week marked our first night of fully unofficial pro-sponsorship and boy was it a doozer: 'c.h.o.m.p.s.' (that's k-9 home protection system fer you uninitiates), the 1979 boy-makes-dog tale from evidently the complete asshole half of th' hanna-barbera partership, and the very, very odd 'starcrash'. yer humble o-rater here thinks perchance one mr. brooks saw this slip o'celluloid a time er ten prior to building his 'spaceballs'. onward, then...

first order of biz here is to lay a whole mess of ack-o-lades on yer 'chomps' box copy, as it attempts to paint some unhealthy parallel betwixt th' flick contained therein and the mega-status-owning 'short circuit,' tho' it was made six years prior. kudos, peter travers or whoever you are, that shit is gold. so, right, guy with foxy girlfriend he pays NO fucking attention to whatsoever (valerie. bertinelli. seriously.) builds robot/AI dog that looks just like his dog (rascal, that one) and teaches it some very detailed commands like "go in mall, ride weird plastic tote-box conveyor belt, deal with baddies, come back," to be triggered mostly by the numbers 48 and 21; meanwhile rascal's nemesis next door, monster, talks or thinks out loud or something, and red buttons annoys his way thru th' o-bligat'ry scooby doo B-S while thurston howell III chews cigars and scenery and eventually explodes. i gotta tell ya about twenty mins into this one i didn't think i was gonna make it, true bereavers, but i'm here to tell ya, stix withit. a more surprising ending 'dirty mary, crazy larry' has not.

alright, lovers of all that is good about movies tinted blue beyond our control and large filmstrip screens begging for hurled aluminum (er "aluminium," as sez our brothers and sisters across the pond), 'dark star' it ain't, but 'starcrash' is one well-worth th' price o'xxtra fish oil. we gotta hottie (caroline munro) who gets progressively less-amply-and-appropriately-clothed as scenes go on fer no discernible reason, a robot who talks like foghorn leghorn, mr. 'dreamscape' himself, chris plum', and...introducing...david the fuck hasselhoff! now normally as ya may well know i don't fall in fer talent but this one's so chock full o'nuts even i was "star" struck! hui hui! plotwise some stuff happens on cardboard spaceships and some stuff happens on cardboard planets and sometimes we're in hyperspace which looks like clouds racing along in time lapse over everything & i'm fairly sure that some great cosmic disaster is averted when the baddie blows up real good nearing the end there and the one good dude just dies 'cause his work here is done (kinda like philo in 'uhf' tho' he's so much more sane about it, just goin' all large marge and blasting himself back to x-17 or wherever) & he needs to go inspire the greatest american hero's hairstylist anyhoo but like that's the point anyways, the point is they got lightsabers/schwartzes and john barry music and it's about a blilzzion times better than 'krull' and there are these two c3po skeletons that will make you yell "harryhausen" whenever they show up so ok i had a good time.

100% of whatever we were drinking out of ended up near the screen, or was meant to.